


Sweat and Blood and Tears: A Geralt Whump Collection

by Llama1412



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Gen, Geralt Whump Week (The Witcher), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:22:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25039933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Llama1412/pseuds/Llama1412
Summary: Collected shorts for Geralt Whump Week.Day 1: OstracismDay 2: PotionsDay 4: BetrayalDay 5: LonelinessDay 7: Kaer Morhen
Comments: 17
Kudos: 65





	1. Day 1: Ostracism

**Author's Note:**

> Posting this on AO3 a day late because I couldn't think of a title or if this was gonna be a collection oops.

Geralt hadn’t started being an outsider when he’d become a witcher. In actual fact, he’d spent most of his life – before his mother abandoned him – alone with her on the road. They were traveling druids and druids weren’t supposed to travel. They were supposed to stay where their connection to nature was strongest. So even when they went “home”, Geralt never felt like he was part of... well, anything.

The one upside of becoming a Witcher was that it gave him that - a place to belong. It was a place full of nightmares and horrors and death, but it was  _ his _ . It was the only place that was his, because it turned out that people believed all those stories about Witchers taking their children in the night, and in general, they hated mutants. 

It wasn’t like Geralt had  _ asked _ to be mutated.

It wasn’t like Geralt had asked for  _ any _ of it. Not to live a lonely nomadic life with his mother, not to be abandoned on Kaer Morhen’s doorstep, not to become a Witcher, and certainly not to receive extra mutations.

Geralt could accept his lot in life, but he never  _ chose _ it. Why would anyone choose to be hated and scorned and spit at everywhere they went?


	2. Day 2: Potions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which I use Geralt to rant about how much fasting with no water before medical procedures sucks. AKA dehydration sucks.

The worst part of fighting vampires, Geralt swore, was the potions. Not because the Black Blood turned his own blood toxic, or even because taking the potion was basically admitting that he was going to be injured and needed his blood to burn his opponents. 

No, it was the come-down from the potion that was the worst. Geralt shuffled deep into a cave to take shelter until the worst of it passed, but while he could hide from the human villagers, he couldn’t hide from himself.

His toxic blood pumped through his body, working to shut his organs down with each slow heartbeat. The only way to heal himself was to flush it out of his system, but no matter how much water Geralt drank, he still felt parched.

His mouth was dry as a desert, tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. His throat ached and it clicked and cracked with every swallow, leaving the iron tang of blood in his back of his mouth. All he could think about was water, but even though he kept drinking and drinking, the feeling didn’t get better. 

From experience, he knew it would linger until his body had fully purged the Black Blood from his system, but that didn’t stop him from chugging as much water as he could. Unfortunately, he’d only brought two waterskins into the cave with him, and his parched throat was demanding more.

Geralt pulled himself to his feet with a groan, feeling like his body was fighting him every step of the way. It took all of his focus to place one foot in front of the other, but all he could think about was the clear, refreshing water from the nearby river that was his destination. His mouth was cottony and coarse, begging him to move faster, but he physically couldn’t. Geralt stumbled against the cave wall, holding himself up as something in his abdomen spasmed and clenched, making his breath catch in his throat. 

He coughed roughly and the taste of rusted metal exploded across his tongue. Geralt spat roughly and the blood was tinged with a rotten black color. 

Fuck, he never wanted to take that damn potion ever again. But as much as he hated it, he knew he would. Geralt was a witcher. His purpose in life was to slay monsters, and sometimes that meant poisoning himself until he could barely stand, just to ensure that his wounds hurt them just as much. 

At least he’d cut off the head of that fucking vampire. Bastard deserved it. Geralt was  _ not  _ a fan of things feeding on him.

When he could breathe without coughing again, he stumbled further towards the entrance of the cave. He cursed himself. Why had he decided to seek shelter so far in? Each breath scraped at his throat like sandpaper and Geralt was desperate for water, even as his body screamed out in agony. The Black Blood was coursing through him, and though he knew his body would ultimately win the fight, he felt like death walking. 

Fuck vampires and fuck potions, and fuck Witchers too. He’d never asked to be one, never asked for this life. And yet here he was, poisoning and killing himself for the same humans who spat as he passed. All to hunt monsters.

Geralt wished Witchers  _ did  _ retire. Maybe then there would be some relief in his future, something to look forward to amongst the monster hunts day after day. Jaskier had once told him that surviving was different than living, and Geralt desperately wanted to discover that difference for himself. 

He was just so  _ tired.  _ Day after day, he risked his life, only to get shortchanged at every turn. And the monsters were so damned annoying. And preventable, dammit! He wouldn’t have to fight another fucking nekker nest if humans would stop leaving rotting corpses about everywhere! It wasn’t that fucking hard to just burn or bury your dead! Fuck, Geralt did it every damn day, because no one else seemed to fucking bother.

It just… what was the point of being a Witcher if humanity purposely summoned more monsters that they could kill? 

Geralt finally reached the cave entrance, but without the wall to lean against, his steps were unstable and it wasn’t long before he crashed to his knees. He could heard the gurgling of the river close by, so loud in his ears. Forgetting any thought of dignity, Geralt reached out and clawed his hands into the dirt, dragging himself to the water’s edge. Once there, he didn’t even bother cupping the water in his hands to drink, instead drenching his head and shoulders as he drank directly from the river. 

It was nice, though. The rive was cool and soothing against his skin, which itched and burned like it was peeling off. Geralt managed to turn himself onto his back, so that he could lay in the water and drink without drowning himself. Maybe he could just lie here until the potion worked its way out of his system. If a beast or monster tried to eat him, they’d just get a mouthful of poison, anyway.

He stared up at the night sky and dreamed of a world where Witchers were allowed to retire. The dream was hazy, details uncertain, but all that mattered was the sense that he could finally just  _ rest. _

Geralt dozed somewhere between waking and sleep, and the river’s current slowly lapped at his body, dragging it incrementally further into the soothing chill of the water.


	3. Day 4: Betrayal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set during Episode 3: Betrayer Moon. Geralt discovers the body of the other Witcher.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No Day 3 because it spawned it's whole own plot. Check it out [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25056862).

Temeria had stunk from the moment Geralt had crossed the border. Well, honestly even before then. Things had started going wrong pretty much from the moment he’d had to leave Roach at the stables.

Still, Geralt had never liked spending time in big cities. And as the capital of Temeria, Vizima was large and stinking and crowded. Geralt hated it immediately.

But he needed the coin. And if there was another Witcher here – it had been so long since Geralt had seen his brethren, his brothers. It would be nice to run into one. It would be nice to be around someone who  _ understood,  _ understood the way humans drew back in fear, understand the despair of knowing their life’s purpose would be endless and unappreciated, understood the loneliness that came with being a Witcher.

Geralt’s reception was not exactly pleasant, but then, it never was. But there was work to do and coin to be made, so when the witch offered him the job – and the coin – he was hardly going to say no. The witch, Triss Merigold, seemed genuine enough in her desire to stop the killings, at least. But Geralt had learned long ago never to trust the surface motives of humans. There was always some hidden lie hiding underneath. Years of digging into contracts had taught him that. There was always some key piece of information that they hid until Geralt forced them into a corner and demanded the details he needed. Always.

When they walked into the morgue, he recognized the dead witcher as Remus immediately and Triss’ lie became clear. His brother had been killed, and she had hidden it, had let the people think he had fled with their coin. Because Witchers only cared about coin – of course they would have so little honor as to run from a monster. 

Geralt held back a snarl, and he bit out his realization. Triss had looked aside with discomfort as soon as he had approached his brother, but now, she met his his gaze directly. Geralt was the one to look away.

Remus had deserved better. He snatched the medallion off his brother’s chest, tucking it into his belt. The least he could do for his brother was ensure that his medallion came back to the one place every Wolf Witcher called home, even if most of them also hated it.

Geralt swallowed around the lump in his throat. Vesemir would be heartbroken. There were so few of them left these days, and Remus was one more brother who was forever gone.

  
_ I swear I will avenge you, _ Geralt promised silently. Then he took a deep breath and forced himself to treat his brother as just another victim. Which meant he needed to know what the monster had eaten and what it hadn’t.


	4. Day 5: Loneliness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt gets abducted and is convinced that no one will come rescue him. (He's wrong).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Major trigger warnings for this chapter, y'all! It is DARK.  
> TW: Graphic depictions of violence, magical injuries, hand injuries, scarification, branding, torture, psychological torture, beatings

Geralt could admit that since he’d driven away the people who cared about him, he’d gotten a lot more careless. It was just hard to fight hard to stay alive when his days were endless loops of beating and getting beaten by monsters and then people shortchanging him for his contracts. 

So he wasn’t as surprised as he probably should have been to wake up somewhere entirely unfamiliar with an aching head and a bitter taste in his mouth. Drugged, most likely. And then chained up. Geralt’s shoulders ached from holding his weight and when Geralt twisted his neck, his vision swimming, he saw that in addition to being chained and bolted to the ceiling, there were dimeritium cuffs around his wrists.

That was going to be a problem. But he wasn’t a mage. Perhaps the if he could free himself otherwise, he could find a way around the cuffs. WItcher magic was nothing like the magic mages could yield, as Yennefer and other sorceresses loved to remind him. Hopefully in this case, _different_ didn’t mean _lesser and therefore wholly blocked._

But first, the chains. He tried pulling down on them, but he couldn’t get the leverage he needed. His feet barely touched the floor, forcing his arms and the chains to take the bulk of his weight, and he seemed to be in a dank and dark dungeon. Geralt closed his eyes and reached out with his senses, but everything was muffled and the pain in his head made it difficult to focus and all he could really tell was that wherever he was, there weren’t many people around at all.

After several attempts to get free, Geralt had to stop, the tugging on the chain making the cuffs dig into his wrist sharply. But stopping didn’t matter, because his weight pulled against the chain, and there wasn’t enough slack for him to stand tall enough to relieve the pressure.

A loud bang made Geralt jump and he strained his ears to search for what had happened, what was coming. Loud stomping steps approached and Geralt could just barely see a light progressing down the corridor to him. He swallowed and took a deep breath. Whatever this was about, he would need to get as much information as possible from his abductor. There was no telling when he’d get a second chance.

The cell door unlocked with a clang and two men entered. One had a greying beard and the way he circled Geralt set his teeth on edge. He did not like people at his back, _especially_ in situations where he was vulnerable.

The other man was broad and built and crossed his arms in a way that made his muscles bulge and Geralt suddenly realized what his purpose was. If the salt and pepper man was in charge, then this one was clearly his enforcer.

Fuck.

Geralt refused to show his apprehension on his face, refused to say anything for fear of what might escape. Instead, he pulled out his most fearsome glare, the one that made even Jaskier, who had never feared him, falter. Geralt’s abductor met his gaze dead on and though their shoulders tensed, they didn’t back down.

“Geralt of Rivia,” the man said instead. “I’ve _so_ looked forward to this. You see, since the war, there are so many calls for a witcher’s services. My own estate has been besieged by disgusting monsters – work fit for a mutant.” Geralt’s captor looked him over with a disdainful sneer pulling at his lips. “But witchers don’t work for free, do they? That’s what they say,” he shrugged, “but I refuse to waste coin on the likes of you. So my friend here,” he gestured at the burly man grinning a demented smile at Geralt, “he had a brilliant idea. He says to me, ‘what if we had our _own_ pet witcher?’ It’s simply your misfortune that you wandered into my grasp.”

“Who are you?” Geralt demanded.

The man simply laughed. “Oh mutant, you aren’t _worth_ my name.” Then he laid his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Now, it’s time for my friend to have fun with you. I look forward to the results.”

And then he left. As if Geralt’s imprisonment and torture wasn’t worth his attention. 

Geralt bared his teeth at the man who remained, and apparently chose his first target for him. Bitter iron flooded Geralt’s mouth at the blow and he spat directly in his self-appointed torturer’s face.

He was rewarded with a closed-fist beating. It was far from the first time Geralt had attacked by a human, but that never made it any more fun. Witchers could heal faster, but that didn’t mean he didn’t feel the wounds.

His torturer clearly enjoyed that about him.

Geralt grit his teeth and tried to hold back his grunts and groans.

––

Eventually, Geralt was left alone. He needed to escape, and he needed to do it fast. But his body ached and his shoulders were screaming at him and he just needed to rest a moment.

He must have rested for longer than he though, because the cell door was clanging open again and his torturer’s grin drifted into focus. Geralt felt bile rising in his throat and _no._ He wasn’t ready, but he wasn’t going to be this man’s punching bag!

Taking a deep breath, Geralt wrapped his hand around the chain and grasped it tight. This was going to hurt, but not as much as letting his bastard have his own way. And Geralt was a fighter – he had to _try,_ had to struggle and fight even as exhaustion dragged at his limbs.

He needed the man to come closer for what he wanted, and he was vaguely glad that at least the man seemed to prefer his fists over a weapon. Goading him closer cost Geralt several blows, but finally, he tenses his arms and pulls his feet up as fast as he can to wrap his thighs around the man’s neck, squeezing as tightly as he could. The mans fingers clawed at his legs, and his face bulged slightly as he struggled to take a breath.

It took a full minute for the man to fall limp into unconsciousness and once he was no longer struggling, Geralt could helft himself up and twist his hips and thighs until he heard the distinctive _crack_ that signaled he could let the now-dead human fall to the floor.

Then, panting for breath, he gripped the chain and pulled himself up until he could brace his feet on the ceiling. If he could get the right leverage, he could pull the bolt on the end of the chain from the ceiling.

Of course, that meant he had no way to brace himself when the chain broke and he went crashing down to the ground on his back, doing no favors for his already bruised ribs. But he doesn’t have time to nurse them. He needs to get out of here and he needs to go _now._

The enforcer had left the cell door unlocked and Geralt jerked it open and ran. His hands were still bound and the chain trailed down from the cuffs, but he would have to worry about that later. He ran up a stone staircase and sprinted down a corridor, and finally, he could see light – sunlight, _freedom._

Guards poured into the hallway and Geralt swung the chain at them, but more kept coming, and fuck, he was _so close._

He had to try to break out of the cuffs now if he would have any hope of surviving. Geralt took a deep breath and braced his feet against the floor, raising his bound hands to face the guards between himself and freedom.

_Aard_ burst out of him, and the guards were pushed back, but so was Geralt, and there was something hot and burning into his wrists and the cuffs were _hot hot hot_ and before Geralt could process what was going on, something slammed into the back of his head and his world faded into darkness.

––

Geralt woke up aching and out of sorts to find the salt and pepper haired man lounging against the cell bars, playing with a knife.

“Ah, finally. You’re awake. Was beginning to wonder if you’d managed to kill yourself.”

“Wha–” Geralt throat seized and he started coughing, instinctively curling in on himself. Every movement hurt, but he realized that his hands hurt more than anything. He looked down at his hands and found bandages wrapped tightly around them, binding his fingers together like mittens.

“Damn near burned your hands off,” the man continued casually. “Apparently witcher magic and dimeritium makes a bad mix. It’s a shame. I was going to torture you until you agreed to work at my bidding. I was planning to make quite a fortune off you, I must say. But since you’ve ruined that – what good is a Witcher who can’t use his hands? – I think I’ll try another game.

“See, my buddy is concerned that you might have friends who will come for you. But me, I know your type. You haven’t got a friend left – drove them all away. So I tell him, ‘you wanna make a bet? I bet the Witcher will waste away before a damn soul bothers to try to find him.’” The cruel laughter rang in Geralt’s ears and that little voice in the back of his head that always reminded him he was a monster spoke up.

Of course no one would come. Why would they? The man was right – he had driven away every last person who might have ever cared what happened to him. 

“Of course,” his abductor continued, “I had to make it fun for me. And it just so happens, I have this enchanted dagger. Supposedly, a cut from it shall never heal, whether ye be man or beast.” He grinned, crooked teeth on display. “Of course, I’d argue mutant scum is neither, but I guess we’ll see, won’t we? Put that famed Witcher healing to the test.”

Geralt wasn’t sure when his breathing had starting coming so short, but his eyes fixed on the knife as the man stepped forward. The metal tip gleamed with a shimmer of magic and chains rustled as Geralt instinctively tried to pull away, even though his wrists and ankles were both bound tightly and anchored to the walls. 

“One cut for every day no one comes for you.” He chuckled, and grasped Geralt’s chin, forcing him to look up at the man. “I wonder how long before you break. I look forward to finding out.”

––

“You still believe someone out there cares for you, don’t you?” The man’s shoes click against the stone as he circles around Geralt. “You’ve given up on fighting, but you haven’t truly given up hope of rescue.” Geralt flinched instinctively when he raised his hand, even though the knife wasn’t in it, and he chuckled. “Well, we can’t have you laboring over false hopes, can we?” His voice was fake jovial, as if breaking Geralt apart was of no consequence. 

“I know!” he snapped his fingers, “I will send a ransom notice for you. You will see how alone you truly are when no one responds. But first…” He twitched his fingers and one of the guards stepped forward. “First we must make you _presentable_ for the portrait artist, hmm?”

Geralt didn’t even have the energy to fight the hands that dragged him to his feet and tore his shirt off, exposing the tally marks the man man had carved into his collar. They numbered exactly sixty-seven. Geralt knew because each wound truly _didn’t_ heal and some were puffy and red with infection. 

His eyes fixed on the knife as soon as the man pulled it out and his breathing came in harsh pants. 

Geralt was screaming before the knife made its first cut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you come after me, I do have a continuation planned and it will have a happy ending ultimately, I promise!


	5. Day 7: Kaer Morhen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt had never needed a magic lantern to see ghosts.

Geralt had never needed a magic lantern to see ghosts. No, they haunted him without regard for whether he should be able to see them or not. 

The first time, he hadn’t realized it was a ghost. He’d been 10 years old and had just survived the first trial when Michel tried to punch him.

That wasn’t unusual – Michel had decided from the moment Geralt had arrived at Kaer Morgen that he hated Geralt and that if Geralt couldn’t defend himself from attacks, then he didn’t deserve to be a witcher.

Geralt was too tired to block the blow. His body ached and his head was spinning and his ears were ringing with sounds he’d never noticed before, and he just didn’t have the energy to deal with Michel. So he braced himself for the punch – and it went straight through him.

Michel gaped, scrambling back from Geralt like _he_ was the weird one. Geralt dragged himself onto his side and threw up, which did actually help the ringing in his ears, but made his nose shriek in rebellion.

It was as Geralt pulled himself across the room, away from the mess and the smell and the overwhelming confines of the room closing in on him, that he realized no one else was moving. 

Well, that wasn’t quite right. Nobody was moving, but six other boys – pale like Michel, but nothing else unusual about them – stood next to their beds.

Next to their _bodies._

Geralt stared down at the closest bed and saw Michel’s face looking back at him. His muscles were contracted in a rictus of horror and agony and the Michel that had tried to punch him was gulping in short, panting breaths that didn’t move the air around the room.

Bile crept up his throat again, and Geralt turned and fled the room, his heartbeat echoing in his ears, only it was much slower now. Too slow.

What had they done to him?

––

The next time a ghost tried to punch him, Geralt had been dealing with his own little posse of ghostly witcher children for over a decade. That didn’t make him any better at dealing with Michel’s taunts, though. Apparently even now that he was six feet of pure muscle, Geralt _still_ couldn’t stand up to Michel without help. And what help could he have, when no one else could see them, when no one else could hear Michel laughing as monsters slashed at him or goading townspeople to throw the rocks they held.

Sometimes, Geralt didn’t know if he wanted others to be able to hear them or not. On the one hand, if people knew, maybe they would help him. On the other hand, what if they did what Michel said? All the other ghosts did.

Geralt wasn’t sure what he would do if his tormentors were able to hurt him physically again. He swallowed against despair and tried to calm the latest ghost. Which was difficult, because he’d been the one to kill them, and they were clearly unhappy about it

What he truly wanted, Geralt thought as the voices screamed at him, was a day with total peace. No ghosts, no monsters, no humans – just peace and quiet, for the first time since Geralt had survived death’s searching grasp.

Maybe he should head towards Redania. He’d heard rumors of a sorcerer around Blaviken. Maybe they would be able to help him. All Geralt wanted was someone to help before he drowned under the venom the ghosts spit at him.

––

Fuck Blaviken. The villagers hadn’t needed to hear Michel to throw their rocks and stones at him and Geralt’s insides felt like they had been carved hollow and like a single hit would shatter the rest of him.

So of course, that hit came in the form of his biggest regret.

“What the fuck!?” Renfri swore, staring down at the bloodstained streets that her feet never quite touched. “What the fuck is going on?”


End file.
